CHAPTER 60: CHAPTER 60 :FROM SHOWCASE TO SHOWDOWN

The Zentron Celestial Center crowd was still buzzing from Frye’s poster dunk—an early exclamation mark that put Team Vess up 5–2.

But Team Nealson wasn’t about to let the momentum slip. They took Coach Nealson’s words to heart: run and gun. No drawn-out sets, no wasted motion. Just grab and go.

Ryan caught the inbound, pushed the tempo hard, and sliced through halfcourt like a hot knife.

No intricate plays, no overthinking—just pure pace. He charged toward the paint.

Dario Banchieri shadowed him, but the defense was loose—more showcase than shutdown.

Ryan scanned the floor and spotted Amin lurking in the corner.

With a flick of his wrist, he zipped a pass right to him.

Amin caught it, squared up, launched.

Splash. 5–5.

He pumped his fist, grinning. "Keep feedin’ me!" he called to Ryan as the crowd roared.

From there, the game turned into a sprint. A full-blown track meet.

You dunk, we dunk.

You pull up, we attack the rim.

Highlight after highlight, both teams went back and forth, trading buckets with reckless flair. Alley-oops, step-backs, windmills—it was a showcase in the purest sense.

And nobody in the building questioned it.

This was the Rising Stars Challenge, after all—nobody came here to watch half-court sets and grind-it-out possessions. This was built for fun. Built for fireworks.

Three minutes in, the score was 13-11, Team Nealson, after a frenetic exchange. Bo Carrick sprinted for a reverse layup on a fast break, while Frye countered with a step-back three that had the Vega fans screaming. The pace was breakneck, too fast for O’Shea Nealson’s liking.

He signaled timeout, his voice sharp over the din.

"Slow it down, fellas!" he said in the huddle. "Fans paid for a show, not a 10-minute sprint. Let’s tighten up on defense, too."

He subbed in Darren Koenig and Julien Store—after all, the Rising Stars Challenge was about making sure every player got their moment on the floor.

Back on the court, Team Vess seemed to have the same idea.

Ryan felt the game’s tempo shift. Team Vess’s defense tightened, and Banchieri was no longer playing nice. Ryan tried his signature crossover, but Banchieri stayed glued to him, his hands active, forcing Ryan to reset.

They’re locking in now, Ryan thought, a grin tugging at his lips. Alright, let’s do this.

He called for a pick-and-roll with Zeke, who rolled hard to the rim. Ryan lobbed a high pass—but Langley, Vess’s center, rotated over and swatted it straight into the third row.

The crowd gasped, then erupted as Vess pushed the fast break.

Frye, streaking down the court, took a pass from Yates and soared for another dunk—this one a windmill that had the arena shaking.

13–13.

Nealson, arms crossed on the sideline, shouted, "Match that energy, Team N!"

Ryan nodded, feeling the game’s intensity crank up. The playful vibe was giving way to something sharper, a subtle edge creeping in. No one was throwing elbows yet, but the competitive fire was undeniable.

The shift in the game’s vibe wasn’t lost on the fans packing the Zentron Celestial Center.

The energy in the stands crackled as the crowd fed off the rising intensity on the court. Sure, they’d come for the flashy dunks and long-range bombs of the Rising Stars Challenge, but there was something primal about seeing those plays born out of real competition.

A highlight reel was cool, but a highlight reel with stakes—players actually trying to outduel each other—that was electric. The fans, greedy for more, roared louder with every contested bucket, their cheers spiking as the game teetered on the edge of something fiercer.

This wasn’t just a circus act, and the crowd knew it.

That’s exactly why the NBA All-Star Weekend has been losing steam in recent years.

It’s taken plenty of heat for losing its competitive edge—games turning into glorified layup lines, with players coasting to avoid injury.

The league learned this the hard way, as ratings for All-Star Weekend have been plummeting year after year.

Fans had grown tired of watching stars jog through half-hearted defenses, chucking up endless threes like it was a shooting contest at a county fair.

Ratings tanked as the spectacle veered into something closer to a Harlem Globetrotters routine than a showcase of elite talent. Back in the day—especially in the Kobe Bryant era—All-Star Games had a pulse. They weren’t just exhibitions; they were battles.

Kobe’s voice still echoed in the basketball world.

In 2019, he’d called out the All-Star Game’s decline, his frustration raw. "Fans want to see the best players in the world go head-to-head, not run suicides and dunk," he’d said, his words cutting through the fluff.

Nobody took the All-Star Game more seriously than Kobe.

To him, it was supposed to be the highest level of basketball,a stage where the best didn’t just show off—they competed.

And he proved it.

Think back to 2003—arguably the greatest All-Star Game of all time.

Michael Jordan’s final appearance, the league’s biggest names all on one floor,

and a young Kobe Bryant stepping up, treating it like Game 7 of the Finals.

That game went to double overtime—the only one in All-Star history.

Jordan hit what looked like the game-winner in the first OT, but on the next possession, Jermaine O’Neal fouled Kobe Bryant on a three-point attempt.

Kobe went to the line and sank two of three, tying the game and forcing a second overtime.

A poetic, if slightly cruel, twist.

The MVP trophy that night?

It had MJ’s name etched into the glass, literally designed to be his farewell gift.

But it ended up in Kevin Garnett’s hands instead.

That game had everything—emotion, competition, history.

You felt the weight of every possession.

And fans still talk about it to this day.

That’s what real basketball looks like.

Looking back at recent years, the 2020 NBA All-Star Game stands out as the one fans still can’t stop talking about.

Kobe Bryant’s death still hung over the league like a fog, heavy and inescapable. But when the players took the court that night, something shifted. What should’ve been just another flashy exhibition turned into a war. No one was smiling. No one was coasting. Every possession felt personal—like someone had flipped a switch and reminded them what this game could be.

The Mamba Mentality was everywhere.

Adam Silver didn’t miss the moment. He greenlit a bold change: the new Elam Ending—a target score to win instead of the usual clock-drain finish. And that fourth quarter? It became legend.

Team LeBron and Team Giannis traded blows like two heavyweights, each bucket met with another. Kawhi Leonard caught fire, drilling eight threes and racking up 30 points on the night. He didn’t say much—he rarely did—but his game screamed everything that needed saying. The first-ever Kobe Bryant All-Star MVP was his, and no one questioned it.

Anthony Davis sealed the win with a free throw, and when the ball dropped through the net, the arena erupted—not because it was dramatic, but because it mattered.

For the first time in years, the All-Star Game wasn’t just for show. Players hit the deck chasing loose balls. Coaches diagrammed real plays. Guys cared. Fans cared. And for a few electric minutes, it felt like the game was whole again.

Just the way Kobe would’ve wanted it.

Back in the present, the Rising Stars Challenge hadn’t yet lost that competitive spark. The fans in Vega City could feel it—the game wasn’t just a dunk contest. When Ryan drove past Dario Banchieri for a rim-rattling slam, or when Colter Frye answered with a poster dunk over Zeke Ender, it wasn’t just flash. It was defiance, a refusal to let the other side take over. The crowd sensed the stakes, and they loved it, their cheers building into a wall of sound that fueled the players. This was what basketball was supposed to be: skill, heart, and just enough edge to keep it real.

With 16 minutes and 45 seconds burned off the clock, the Rising Stars Challenge had slowed to a grind, the ramped-up defensive intensity choking off the early scoring spree.

The scoreboard glowed: Team Nealson 32, Team Vess 30.

The Zentron Celestial Center buzzed during the timeout, fans still riding the high of a game that felt more like a playoff scrap than a showcase. Both teams’ honorary coaches—O’Shea Nealson and Lionel Vess—huddled with their squads, markers squeaking on whiteboards as they sketched out rare tactical adjustments, a departure from the usual run-and-gun script.

At the broadcast table, perched high above the court, the commentators leaned into the moment. Play-by-play man Richard Mason, his voice crisp with excitement, cut through the arena’s hum.

"This year’s game has some serious bite, folks. We’re seeing real defense out there!"

Color analyst David Wilson nodded, his tone warm but analytical.

"Absolutely, Rich. But let’s talk about the big question: who’s walking away with the Rising Stars MVP tonight?"

Mason glanced at his stat sheet, the numbers lit up on his monitor.

"Let’s break it down. Ryan Voss is sitting at 10 points, Colter Frye’s matching him with 10, Dario Banchieri’s got 8, and Amin Thomas is no slouch with two threes for 6 points."

Wilson stroked his chin.

"Barring a late surge, it’s coming down to those four."

Mason’s eyes flicked to the court as the teams broke their huddles.

"Game’s back on, and—hold up, Banchieri’s not checking in."

Wilson chuckled, reading the move.

"Smart play. Probably doesn’t want to steal the spotlight from the rookies."

Though it’s never written in stone, the ABA Rising Stars MVP typically goes to a first-year player, a nod to the game’s focus on fresh faces. Banchieri, a sophomore from the Yurev Crows, had already claimed the award last year as a rookie, lighting up the court with his tenacious play. This time around, stepping back to give the new kids a shot at the hardware was a classy move, one that fit the unspoken code of the event.